Upon the wind-swept platform of St. Paul’s Station in the City, while
awaiting the arrival of the 7.7 to Peckham, he was accosted by the
erect and immaculate form of Mr. G. Eliot Davis. The nonchalance of
bearing and air of supreme self-possession of this gentleman were
hardly inferior to those of Mr. Dodson himself.
“Hullo, Luney,” said Mr. Davis, looking up from the precincts of an
inordinately high collar to the face of a gaunt figure which, somewhat
to the annoyance of Mr. Davis, was considerably taller than his own;
“arrayed, I see, like Solomon in all his glory. Feeling pretty cheery,
eh, and full of parlour tricks? I must say these functions don’t amuse
me at all. Music and progressive games!--I like more knife and fork
work myself. Come on and have a sherry and bitters before we start.”
Mr. William Jordan had already acquired that rudimentary wisdom of the
“out-of-doors” world, that “when you are in Rome you must do like the
Romans.” He had also on his way in the omnibus determined to follow out
this fundamental truth, as far as in him lay, to the letter. Therefore,
with great docility he accompanied Mr. Davis to the buffet to have a
sherry and bitters. It is not necessary to state that even in the act
of swallowing that mysterious compound he had ample cause to rue his
superhuman resolve.
It was with a sensation of being poisoned that in the wake of
his mentor for the time being he invaded a second-class smoking
compartment, already overcrowded with emphatic street-persons, smoking
equally emphatic tobacco.
Upon their arrival at Peckham, the young man recalled Mr. Dodson’s
injunctions and very timorously advanced the suggestion that they
should take a hansom to Midlothian Avenue. Mr. Davis received the
suggestion with loud-voiced derision.
“Not likely,” said that gentleman. “I am not a bloated plutocrat. You
should have sported a pair of goloshes the same as me.”
William Jordan, Junior, was confronted accordingly with the extreme
course of having to take a hansom for himself, and of inviting Mr.
Davis to accept a seat therein. Mr. Davis’s tone of unmistakable
rebuff, however, had quelled him so effectually that he could not find
the courage to do either of these things. Accordingly he was obliged to
pick his way with great trepidation along divers unclean thoroughfares
to the frank amusement of his companion, who, in bringing to his notice
innumerable pools of water and stretches of mud upon the route, abjured
him earnestly “to be careful of his ‘pumps.’”
Upon the stroke of half-past eight Mr. Davis executed an ostentatious
tattoo upon the knocker of No. 8, Gladstone Villas, which was situate
amid two narrow rows of ill-lighted, meagre, lower middle class
respectability. They were received with great cordiality by Mr. Dodson
himself, who in immaculate evening attire appeared to considerable
advantage.
“Hullo, Luney, old boy,” said Mr. Dodson, “so here we are! Give me your
hat and coat and then come in here, and I’ll introduce you to Coxey and
John Dobbs.”
With a dull terror in his soul Mr. William Jordan, Junior, resigned
himself implicitly into the care of his mentor, so that almost without
being aware of how he came there, he found himself in an exceedingly
small room in the presence of several other immaculately attired
gentlemen; and these, although entire strangers to him, were of an
extremely critical cast of countenance. He could understand nothing of
what was taking place, although presently he awoke to the fact that
these gentlemen were grasping him by the hand.
“You’ll have a finger before we go up-stairs to the ladies?” said Mr.
Dodson, pouring a coloured liquid into a tumbler, to which he added an
even more mysterious liquid that went off with a hiss. “Say when.”
“Oh n-n-n-no, please!” gasped Mr. William Jordan; for a bitter
recollection still abided within him of his misadventure at the railway
station buffet.
Hearing this note of somewhat exaggerated appeal the other gentlemen
could hardly repress a guffaw, particularly when incited thereto by a
knowing wink from Mr. Davis.
“Never mind them, Luney old boy,” said Mr. Dodson, who as he spoke
smiled archly at his guests. “They don’t know any better. They are not
accustomed to mix with men of intellect on equal terms.”
“That is the truest word you’ve spoken this week, Jim Dodson,” said Mr.
John Dobbs of the Alcazar Theatre, a heavy and sombre young man with
very long and thick black hair and a voice that seemed to proceed from
his boots.
“Close it, Jimmy,” said Mr. Joseph Cox, a small and dapper young
gentleman with a very easy and cordial manner.
“One of these days he will be the best slow left-arm bowler in Surrey,”
said Mr. Dodson in an impressive aside to Mr. William Jordan, and in a
voice sufficiently audible for Mr. Joseph Cox to hear.
Mr. Dodson, having to the frank amusement of those gentlemen assembled,
exercised his blandishments in vain to induce Mr. William Jordan “to
have a finger before going up-stairs to see the ladies,” at length
proceeded to conduct the young man thither without this aid, which he
and his friends deemed most essential to the accomplishment of so grave
an ordeal.
“Don’t be nervous, old boy,” said his mentor kindly, as he took him
firmly by the arm; “at the worst they can’t do more than eat you, and
if they do they will wish they hadn’t.”
“Are--are my--my sh-shoes all right?” stammered Mr. William Jordan in a
hoarse whisper.
“Right as rain, my son,” said his mentor. “And Mosenthal has turned you
a treat. You look a regular poem in blank verse. It wouldn’t surprise
me a bit if they _do_ want to eat you.”
As Mr. Dodson placed his hand on the drawing-room door the terrible
sensations of that long year ago when the same hand was on the door of
Mr. Octavius Crumpett again assailed the young man. Only to-night these
emotions seemed to be more intense. And of late he had come fondly to
imagine that never again would he become the prey of weaknesses so
pitiful.
His brain was dazed and his eyes were almost dark when bright lights
and colours and a pageant of female loveliness was first unfolded to
his gaze. It is true that the first of these ladies whom he had to
encounter was not very beautiful: a fat, elderly, unemphatic kind
of lady whose clothes looked odd, and who wore a kind of irrelevant
dignity which somehow did not seem to fit her.
“Mater, this is Mr. William Jordan, the young sportsman I am always
telling you about,” said Mr. Dodson in a cheery voice.
“Pleased to meet you, young man,” said this lady, shooting out a fat
hand as a highwayman might shoot out a horse-pistol. However, Mr.
Jordan had the presence of mind to grasp it, and at the same time to
bow low.
Beside her was a lady dressed severely in black. She sat very upright,
and held a pair of glasses in front of her which she used with
devastating effect. In mien she was aged and severe; in manner she was
sharp and staccato, and with no more geniality than a piece of ice.
“Aunt Tabitha,” said Mr. Dodson, “Mr. Jordan. Mr. Jordan--Aunt Tabitha.”
This very formidable lady turned such a cold and resolute gaze upon the
young man that sharp little shivers seemed to envelop him. It seemed to
congeal the half-formed words on his lips. All the same he was able to
go through the formality of almost bowing to the ground.
The next lady to whom his attention was directed was extremely
resplendent and also extremely _decolletée_. In spite of her air of
magnificence, her blazing jewels, the gorgeous texture of her skin and
her clothes, there seemed to be something curiously familiar about
her. The mystery was solved, however, almost before it had had time to
become one.
“Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson, “what price our fat friend?”
“Ain’t he just utter,” said the gorgeous creature, giving Mr. Jordan a
playful flick with her fan. “I am sure mother ought to be proud of her
boy to-night.”
As Mr. Jordan bowed very low before her, the gorgeous lady made a very
remarkable and visibly distorted “face” at another gorgeous lady who
sat by her side.
In sheer splendour and profuse magnificence all paled their ineffectual
fires before that of this fourth lady who sat by Chrissie’s side. When
the young man first ventured to look at this apparition of female
loveliness, the power of breathing was almost denied to him. In beauty
she was ravishing; divinely tall apparently, and most divinely fair.
She had the look of a goddess: young, brilliant, queenly, with a
noble fire in her glance. Her clothes in their ample majesty and her
jewels in their lustre made those of Chrissie appear almost tawdry
by comparison. Never until that moment had William Jordan divined,
not even in that remote and ill-starred adventure of his childhood,
that actual authentic goddesses still walked the earth, clad in their
ravishing flesh and blood. As this vision burst upon his gaze William
Jordan could scarcely repress an exclamation of awe and wonder and
delight.
“Miss Hermione Leigh,” said Mr. Dodson, “Mr. Jordan; Mr. Jordan--Miss
Hermione Leigh.”
To the exaggerated deference of which she was the recipient on the part
of Mr. William Jordan, this divinity returned a curt and aloof nod,
which might hardly have been interpreted as a nod at all; and at the
same moment she made a gesture to Chrissie which partook of the nature
of putting out her tongue.
“Ain’t he marvellous?” said Miss Hermione Leigh to her friend Chrissie
in an eloquent aside. “Where did Jimmy dig _him_ up? Has he taken out a
licence for him?”
“A gilt mug,” said Chrissie in the matter-of-fact tone that never
forsook her.
“Oh, oh!” said Miss Hermione Leigh, as if sudden light had suffused her
robust intelligence; “that explains it.” She turned an arch glance upon
Mr. William Jordan. “Not going to run away, cocky, are you?” said the
divinity. “Ought to be room for you and me on the same settee.”
She patted the sofa on which she sat with a white-gloved paw.
Mr. Jordan felt his ears to be burning. A fiery haze was floating
before his eyes. He was trembling in every limb. With a supreme effort
he managed to take a seat on the sofa, and as close to the goddess as
he dare.
Three minutes of tense silence passed. Both ladies appeared to expect
him to say something. Of this fact, however, Mr. William Jordan was not
at all conscious. His excitement, his nervousness, his self-conscious
effacement had yielded place to a kind of religious awe. He, William
Jordan, was slowly beginning to realize that unawares he had had the
unspeakable temerity to enter the presence of the white-armed Hera. As
far as he was concerned, the occasion was not one for speech, even had
he been in a physical condition to indulge in such an act of vandalism.
He had quite enough to do to glance at her furtively, sideways, and to
try to catch the sound of her breath.
At last the goddess looked at him very boldly and directly, right into
his shy and bewildered eyes that were set so deep.
“Well?” she said.
By a wonderful effort of the mind, which was yet purely involuntary,
and was only rendered possible by his almost occult faculty of a
never-failing courtesy, the young man grasped the fact that the goddess
was under the impression that he had dared to address a remark to her.
“I--I b-beg your p-p-p-pardon,” he stammered painfully. “I--I d-don’t
think I--I s-said a-anything.”
These words and particularly the mode of their utterance caused the
goddess to titter in a very audible and unmistakable manner. Her
companion followed her example.
“He d-doesn’t t-think he s-said a-anything,” said one lady to the
other, “he d-doesn’t t-think he s-said a-anything.”
Miss Hermione Leigh then turned to Mr. William Jordan.
“You _are_ funny,” she said.
Before Mr. Jordan could find a fitting rejoinder to an indictment which
seemed to baffle him completely, his friend Mr. Davis sauntered up
to the sofa. His hands were in his pockets; his demeanour was one of
inimitable nonchalance.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Chrissie, “look what’s blown in! How’s Percival?”
“So, so,” said Mr. Davis, with an air of polite weariness.
“I s’pose you know Hermione?”
“Only on Saturdays,” said Mr. Davis, with a humility that seemed to be
finely considered, “when I draw my screw.”
“Oh come, Percy,” said Miss Hermione Leigh, with amiable protest, “I
reckon to know you at least two days a week since you have had a rise
in your salary.”
“Not you,” said Mr. Davis, with quiet good nature. “One supper at the
Troc of a Saturday with a half-bottle of Pommery, and it is all blewed
bar the washing money. You know very well, Hermione, you cut mugs like
me dead when we come sneaking out of Lockhart’s all the rest of the
week.”
“Not quite so much of the mug, Percy,” said Miss Hermione Leigh, “and
not quite so much of the Pommery. You don’t average three bottles a
year.”
Before Mr. Davis could deny this impeachment in adequate terms, the
voice of Mr. Dodson was heard proclaiming from the piano at the other
end of the room that Mr. Percival Davis, the celebrated tenor, would
sing the no-less celebrated song, “I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”
“I will do so,” said Mr. Davis, with great promptitude. “This is where
I get my own back.”
Mr. Davis rendered that song in a quite admirable manner. When the
deserved applause which greeted it had subsided, and Mr. Dodson had
informed the company that owing to the unparalleled length of the
programme, and the unprecedented quantity of talent that was present
that evening, no encores would be granted in any circumstances
whatever, Miss Hermione Leigh informed her companion that “although
Percy was dirt mean, he _could_ sing,” a judgment to which Chrissie
accorded her imprimatur.
Mr. Dodson then announced that Mr. John Dobbs of the Alcazar Theatre,
and of the London and Provincial Concerts, would render that
heart-rending melody, “The Lost Chord,” which Mr. Dobbs immediately
proceeded to do. As this melancholy-looking and large-eyed and
profuse-haired young man drew marvellous strains from two pieces of
wood and a few strings Mr. William Jordan’s thoughts strayed a moment
from the thrall of the goddess. He sat with his hands clasped, his
gaunt form as tense as an arrow drawn to the string. In his eyes was a
dreamy rapture, and in the centre of each was a large stealthy tear.
His whole being was entranced. The two ladies in whose vicinity he
was, nudged one another furtively and together perused that strange
countenance with great satisfaction to themselves.
Upon the subsidence of the enthusiasm which Mr. John Dobbs’s effort
called forth, Mr. Dodson announced that Miss Hermione Leigh of the
“Peace and War Ballet” of the Alcazar Theatre, would render that
touching melody, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” with dance accompaniment,
as performed by her before most of the bald-heads of Europe, not to
mention those of Bethnal Green. This announcement was received with
such favour by the gentlemen present that immediately they broke into a
cheer.
With immense good nature Miss Hermione Leigh swept across the room to
the piano, and with the aid of the variously accomplished Mr. Dodson
himself, who “scratched the ivories” by request, and also with the aid
of Mr. Davis, who turned over the music after, as he expressed it, “he
had cleared the course for the big race” by driving back the company,
regardless of age and sex, from within an area of at least eight feet
of the piano, and in spite of the fact that Aunt Tabitha, who was
compelled to move her chair, stared at Mr. Davis through her glasses
with a stony glare, and said at the top of a loud harsh voice, “That
is a very unmannerly young man”--a remark which set the remainder of
the company in roars of laughter, in which Mr. Davis joined more loudly
than anybody else.
Yet what can describe or even remotely indicate the emotions which
surged over Mr. William Jordan, Junior, when through eyes dim with
ecstasy he beheld the divine form of the goddess, who, as she rose to
her full height beside the piano and broke into a not particularly
melodious warble, approximated more nearly in physique and appearance
to his Olympians than any creature he had looked upon hitherto. It did
not matter to William Jordan what strange and fantastic words fell from
that full, white throat, or what fantastic gyrations that divine form
subsequently went through; it was not for such as himself remotely to
comprehend the speech and gestures of those immortal ones of whom she
was a daughter. He sat entranced, unable to move, to think, or even to
realize the wild emotions of which so suddenly he had become the prey.
When the goddess, a little out of breath, and also flushed, and
therefore looking more brilliant than ever, swept back to the sofa to
his side, a kind of religious awe mounted in Mr. William Jordan as he
peered upwards into that beautiful, smiling, good-natured face.
“O-o-oh!” he exclaimed softly.
Hearing the exclamation, both Chrissie and the goddess looked towards
the source of it in unconcealed amazement. They then looked at one
another. As the goddess sank upon the sofa somewhat heavily she broke
out into a loud laugh.
“Too funny!” she said, and proceeded to fan herself with great vigour.
Mr. Dodson then informed the company that Mr. James Dodson, of the
St. James’s Restaurant Bar, Piccadilly, would admit any member of the
audience into the mysteries of the three-card trick free of charge, yet
made an exception in favour of Mr. Percival Davis, who was not in need
of instruction.
“Jimmy,” said his _fiancée_ in an authoritative tone, “sing _I Want One
like Pa had Yesterday_.”
When Mr. Dodson had rendered this ballad with immense success, he
called upon Joseph Cox, Esquire, of Surrey Second Eleven, and also
of the leading public-houses within a mile radius of Kennington Oval,
to give his world-famous imitation of a white mouse walking upon its
fore-paws backwards.
Mr. Joseph Cox, with great natural modesty, disclaimed any special
aptitude for a feat of this delicate nature, but, rather than be a
source of disappointment to the company, he would undertake either to
give an imitation of a hen laying an egg, or, if preferred, he would
stand on his head while any member of the audience counted thirty.
Upon the proposal by Mr. Joseph Cox of these two extremely honourable
alternatives, Mr. Dodson proceeded, as he phrased it, “to put it to the
meeting.” With surprising unanimity “the meeting” decided that Mr. Cox
be called upon to attempt the hazardous feat of standing on his head
while Miss Tabitha Dodson counted thirty. After a little delay, which
was caused by Miss Tabitha Dodson declining in most uncompromising
terms to be associated in an official capacity with “such a piece
of tomfoolery”--which resulted in the hostess, Mrs. Dodson, being
nominated for this onerous duty--Mr. Joseph Cox, with a solemnity of
mien which filled the audience with the greatest possible delight,
proceeded to poise himself upon his apex.
When the enthusiasm which this feat excited had subsided in some
measure, it was restored almost to its original fervour by Mr. Dodson’s
announcement of the event of the evening. Mr. William Jordan, the
distinguished scholar and England’s future poet laureate, would recite
the first book of Homer’s Odyssey in the original Greek.
When Mr. William Jordan discovered that he was the source of some
almost hilarious enthusiasm, he cried in tragic accents, with a kind of
horror in his deep-set eyes, “Oh n-n-n-no, I c-c-c-c-couldn’t! indeed I
c-c-c-c-couldn’t!”
In the midst of the shrieks of laughter which his words and the
distraught expression of his countenance provoked, and after Mr. Dodson
had ministered thereto by the assurance “that it was not because Mr.
Jordan couldn’t, but because Mr. Jordan wouldn’t,” he allayed any
feeling of disappointment that might have arisen from Mr. Jordan’s
obduracy--which he assured Mr. Jordan “was not the thing”--by proposing
that they should go down to supper.
It was in the process of marshalling this “small but select” assembly
that Mr. Dodson found a further opportunity for the display of that
administrative power of which he was the fortunate possessor. At least
three of the gentlemen present were aspirants for the favours of Miss
Hermione Leigh. However, Mr. Dodson, who even upon the threshold of his
career had nothing to learn in the elements of social practice, chose
to assume a demeanour of impregnable innocence towards all the covert
signals that were directed to him, and informed Mr. William Jordan that
his was the honour of “taking down” the divinity who reclined by his
side.
It must be admitted that Miss Hermione Leigh accepted this ruling
somewhat ungraciously.
“I shall ask Jimmy what he means by this,” said the goddess to
Chrissie. “He might at least have taken that stuffed owl out of the
glass case on the chimney-piece, so that I could go down with that.”
“It is only his fun,” said Chrissie.
“I sha’n’t sing after supper,” said Miss Hermione Leigh, bridling.
“You have not been asked, my dear,” said Chrissie imperturbably.
“Anyhow, that cuckoo is better than Percy Davis,” said Mr. Joseph Cox
to Mr. John Dobbs, with the resignation of one who has swallowed most
of the formulas.
“Better that crackpot than Joe Cox,” Mr. John Dobbs confided to Mr.
Percival Davis.
In the dining-room of No. 8, Gladstone Villas, which was a more
commodious dwelling than any this rising family had previously
occupied--a contingency that was due to the recent rise in salary of
its eldest scion--was seated Police-Sergeant Dodson, in his best and
very highly furbished official uniform. The lustre of his hair outshone
the candelabra.
Police-Sergeant Dodson rose from his seat at the head of the
highly-decorated table, which he had occupied with heroic patience
for the last half-hour while he waited for the real business of the
evening to begin, and shook each person who entered heartily by the
hand--beginning with “Mother”--and hoped earnestly that one and all
would make themselves quite at home.
“What do _you_ think, old cock?” said Mr. Dodson _fils_, placing his
_fiancée_ at the right hand of his hearty, yet majestic parent.
“No sparring for places,” cried Mr. Dodson _fils_ in a voice of large
authority. “You’ve got to tackle the ham, Percy, my son; and Joe Cox,
you set about those ducks. You ought to be used to ’em by this time.”
In spite, however, of the airy and invincible good humour of Mr. Dodson
_fils_, it called for no particular acuteness of observation to detect
that a gloom had suddenly overspread the company. Mr. Dodson _fils_
may even have been conscious of it himself; but, even if he was, his
gay courage and inimitable _flair_ would admit no check; and, further,
it was his boast “that he had a mind above trifles.” But, in spite of
this, it was apparent to all that a gloom had overspread the company.
“I call it an insult to me,” said Chrissie across the table to the
goddess in a defiant undertone. “Jimmy will hear of this again.”
“Poor form, I must say,” said Mr. Davis to Miss Sparhawk, an agitated
but voluble young lady who had arrived late. “I should have thought
Jimmy’s old man would have known better.”
In spite of the indefatigable exertions of Mr. Dodson _fils_, who
took upon himself the somewhat exacting duties of “head waiter,”
the vigorous manipulation of knives and forks, and the revivifying
influence of what Mr. Dodson _fils_ facetiously termed “the
gooseberry”--a yellow, fizzing liquid which Mr. Jordan, with a lively
recollection of a recent experience, tasted very warily, and found
almost nice--in spite of all these circumstances, it was only too clear
that something had passed from the gay assembly that could never return.
Mr. Jordan ate very little of the robust foods that were spread before
him in such profusion; but the goddess, who so miraculously had been
confided to his care, behaved before these viands with wonderful
vigour, resolution and success. It was far from Mr. Jordan’s province
to marvel that a goddess should eat so much, or with such an absence of
delicacy, but marvel he did at the catholicity of a taste that could
deal so faithfully with meats of this sort, which in no sense seemed to
compare with her native nectar and ambrosia.
A spasmodic flicker of gaiety was imparted to the company by the toasts
and speeches. Police-Sergeant Dodson, in referring in appropriate terms
to an event which concerned the scion of his house very nearly, “hoped
Jimmy, who was a good boy, would make a better man than his father.”
“Taken as read, old cock,” interposed Mr. Dodson _fils_.
In the course of the reply made by Mr. Dodson _fils_ to the toast
of his own health and that of his _fiancée_, he testified with a
_bonhomie_ that was most engaging, and in terms of great felicity, to
the pleasure derived by all present from the presence of everybody else.
By the time the feasting and toasting had been conducted to an issue
that was more or less happy--in spite of the pall that still hovered
over the assembly--and after the ladies had gone up-stairs, and after
Mr. Jordan had been exhorted in vain by each of the gentlemen who
still lingered around the board to “try a weed”--an invitation which
he declined in such alarmed accents as to cause them all to become
hilariously merry--the bewildered and feverishly excited young man,
without knowing how he came to be there, found himself standing again
in the drawing-room in the presence of the goddess.
In the process of time the fact invaded his mind that his place on
the settee by the side of the divinity was now in the occupation of
another. That other was Mr. Percival Davis.
“He may be very clever,” Mr. Jordan overheard the penetrating accent of
the goddess, “but I don’t think much of his conversation. Do you?”
“I call it rotten,” said Mr. Percival Davis, as he transfixed the young
man with a smile that was full of meaning. “I suppose his brain is so
subtle that when he says something it is just the same as though he had
said nothing at all.”
“Must be,” said Miss Hermione Leigh.
Mr. Davis and the goddess laughed so loudly and so directly at Mr.
William Jordan that he gave a little gasp of dismay and yielded a step
in dire confusion.
“Run away and play,” said Mr. Davis.
“Like a good boy,” said the goddess.
“You are sure you got permission from mother to be out so late?”
Chrissie inquired languidly from the head of the sofa.
While Mr. Jordan continued to stand in this irresolution, and in his
distress at finding himself publicly mocked by others, not knowing
which way to turn or what to do, he became aware that across the room,
which was enveloped in a kind of red haze, the elderly and angular old
lady with the glasses, the severe mien, the austere black dress, and
the loud, harsh voice, appeared to be in the act of beckoning to him.
“Yes, go and sit with auntie,” said Mr. Davis, as the unhappy young
man, with all his liveliest fears returning, approached this old lady
of most formidable aspect.
“Sit here,” said the old lady, placing her hand on the vacant chair at
her side.
Mr. Jordan obeyed with great docility.
“By the way, what is your name?” inquired the old lady in a much softer
tone than that which she seemed habitually to use.
“My n-n-name is William Jordan, ma’am,” said the young man, overawed a
good deal by her demeanour, yet at the same time already beginning to
feel much more at his ease than he had done in the presence of Chrissie
and the goddess.
“Well, Mr. Jordan,” said the old lady, with a subacid precision which
yet did not seem unpleasant, “you are in the unhappy position this
evening of being the only gentleman present.”
The significance of this pregnant assertion was not at first rendered
to Mr. Jordan, but the old lady, observing his bewilderment, deigned to
make it clear.
“My nephew,” she said, “is a very able young man, but he is far removed
from being a gentleman. His friends are not able young men, and they
are still further removed from being gentlemen. I call them cads, Mr.
Jordan; I call them cads. And those women! I have no words for _them_.
I doubt whether the Dowager Lady Brigintop would have had words for
them either. It is a singular fact, Mr. Jordan, which you may have
observed, though I doubt it, that in all grades of society the women
are either better than the men or they are worse. But they are never on
the same level. I consider it an outrage, Mr. Jordan, for a Christian
gentlewoman to be asked to meet women of that type. I am sorry to say,
Mr. Jordan, that my nephew is like his father, he is deficient in the
finer shades of feeling. To think that my brother Charles should appear
at an evening party in the uniform of a police constable! A man who is
capable of such a breach of taste is capable of anything. I would blame
his wife Maria, but, unfortunately, she was ever too poor a creature
to be worthy of blame in anything. Mr. Jordan, you are entitled to
sincere sympathy. I cannot conceive of a harder fate than to be born a
gentleman in your present rank of life.”
This monologue, delivered in a sharp and stinging staccato, was so much
over the head of Mr. Jordan as to be completely unintelligible.
“I speak with authority,” the old lady continued in a manner that made
the proclamation superfluous. “It has been my ill fortune to occupy
your position for many years.”
Before Mr. Jordan could comprehend what the position was that this
majestic old lady had occupied for many years, she rose from her chair
in a very grave and stiff manner, and said, “Mr. Jordan, you may
conduct me to my omnibus.”
Taking an impressive leave of Mrs. Dodson, who was a very florid and
indecisive kind of lady, and of Police-Sergeant Dodson, who was a very
stolid and imperturbable kind of man, the old lady left the room with a
demeanour of marked hauteur, humbly followed by the abashed form of Mr.
William Jordan.
“What price Luney and Aunt Tabitha?” said Mr. Dodson _fils_ from the
seclusion of a card-table that had been set up in a corner. “I expect
he will cut me out in her will, but if he does I sha’n’t begrudge it
him.”
As Mr. Jordan conducted the majestic old lady to her omnibus, she had
the condescension to inform him that there was something about him that
engaged her curiosity.
“I suppose it is,” she said in her ample and uncompromising manner,
“that even when a Christian gentlewoman gets to be as old as I am she
does not lose her taste for a gentleman. I have had to live without the
sight of one for many years now. I loathe my nephew. Yet he is a young
man who will make a mark in the world. You, Mr. Jordan, will make no
mark in the world, but I hope I may have the pleasure of meeting you
again.”
It was with this odd combination of tenderness and ferocity, of
clear-sightedness and sentiment, that the austere old creature, with a
smile for her cavalier that was almost gentle, ensconced herself in a
dark corner of the omnibus. On the way home to her lonely hearth, at
No. 5 Petersfield Terrace, Brixton, she muttered, “There is no place
in this world for that young man. I would like to know his history; I
would like to know his history!”
Mr. Jordan finally quitted No. 8 Gladstone Villas, Midlothian Avenue,
that evening a few minutes before midnight. He found himself again
committed to the charge of Mr. Percival Davis. They managed to catch
the last train to the City.
“Mark my words, Luney,” said Mr. Davis, with a prophetic fervour, as
they sat opposite one another in the train, “Jimmy has done for himself
with Chrissie. She will never forgive his governor sitting down to
supper in his rozzer’s kit. J. Dodson knows most things, but the weasel
was sleeping that time. I think, my worthy Lunatic, this is where one
P. Davis goes in again himself.”
* * * * *
It was a feeble, weary, limping figure--for the new shoes were
excruciatingly tight--that crept into the little room during the small
hours of the morning. The white-haired man was conning the pages of the
great book.
“Ah, my beloved Achilles,” he said, “so you have found sanctuary again.
I know that your adventures have been far too marvellous to relate. But
would you say, beloved, that your infinite pains have borne a fruit
adequate to that which they have cost you?”
“Yes, my father,” said the young man humbly, “I think I may say that.”
The young man’s thoughts were of the goddess. As he lay in his
pillows, with his dazed brain reverting for the thousand and first time
to that rare and strange glamour and all that it implied, he fell into
a troubled sleep that was fraught with dreams.